


No Longer at the Splendid Ball

by eternalbrook



Series: vinegar and pearl-ash [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Class Issues, Edward Little's social anxiety, M/M, Post-Rescue, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, and general depression, the admiralty loves to throw a party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbrook/pseuds/eternalbrook
Summary: Some nights Jopson would work around the officers as they took their after-dinner drinks. Edward usually retired early to his bunk, but those nights he liked to stay in the wardroom late, feeling some part of him drawn to the steward’s presence. Being around Jopson filled him with both comfort and disquiet, a contradiction he could not understand but felt overpowered by. When Jopson would catch his eye, his lips would twitch into the smallest smile and he would tilt his head in a minute bow, and Edward would nod back, wondering if he would ever be lucky enough to earn a true smile.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little
Series: vinegar and pearl-ash [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207037
Comments: 15
Kudos: 60





	No Longer at the Splendid Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Victorian [poem](https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Naval_Chronicle_Volume_28_July_Decem.html?id=QWbjxv5O6ocC) about officer's uniforms.  
> Brief use of canon-typical racist language.

The hall is too warm, but Edward is determined not to notice. Every available member of the admiralty, their wives, some gentry, a handful of newspapermen: all are crowded into Somerset House, milling about and laughing and admiring everyone in their best fashions. ( _Just like Carnival, his mind supplies_ – but no, this is different, this is safe.) The press of bodies has made the temperature uncomfortable, and the gold brocade on the collar of Edward’s uniform is damp. He shouldn’t mind; he should appreciate it. How many times on the ice, on the shale, even on the boat home had he promised himself that he would press into every warmth he could find for the rest of his life? He had fantasized of fires, of wood stoves and woolen blankets and mild climes. Now he is here, and to mind the warmth feels churlish. 

To object to any of this would be ungrateful, he reminds himself. It is all in their honor after all, although in keeping with the admiralty’s general habit no one had enquired if any of the expedition survivors actually wished to attend a celebration. Their rescue was apparently the kind of victory for the Discovery Service that needed to be feted, and loudly. If they had returned years earlier, Edward thought, if reason and skill or at least providence had won the day and they had turned back earlier with a near full roster of men, there would have been no celebrations. But instead dozens of good men had been left as corpses in the ice and the shale, and so the failure to discover the passage had been forgiven, and now there was a party.

“Drink, sir?”

Edward startles and turns toward the man, dark-haired with a familiar accent – but no, it is just a server, holding a tray of glasses. He takes a glass of madeira for want of something to do with his hands. Better than Allsop’s, at least. He stands against the wall, sipping slowly and eyeing the crowd. He does not know whom he is searching for, or if he is hoping or dreading to see their face. 

Lady Jane Franklin is holding court on the other side of the hall, somber and stolid in her widow’s weeds. She does not look like she is enjoying the festivities any more than he is, and he cannot blame her. Partygoers passing her by stop to take her hand and speak lowly with grave faces and then walk on, faces lifting as they return to revelries. Edward wants to know how she bears it. He thinks of Irving, desecrated by that rat-faced mutineer, of Hodgson, lost in the fog after the creature’s attack, and all the other men whose names they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. _We’re all widows now_ , he thinks, and downs his glass as he walks into the next room. 

Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames are stood together in a corner. Here at last are faces Edward is glad to see. They are speaking to each other quietly, the words lost in the sounds of the crowd. When Edward last visited Crozier he had mentioned taking lodgings with Fitzjames. A sensible idea, Edward had thought, given that they were all on half-pay. He knew as well how strong the bonds of friendship were between his captain and the commander. To make a home with a man whose judgment you trusted absolute, who had been through that icy hell by your side – that would be something very fine indeed. 

For himself, Edward had taken a small house at the edge of the city with an indifferent housekeeper. When his sisters had visited they had decried the state of his linens, the dust in the corners, the emptiness of the rooms. 

“You must stay with me and John, or at least visit Mother and Father,” Maggie had said.

“It’s too lonely here,” said Charlotte. “It’s not good for you, Neddie.”

“I like the quiet,” Edward had protested, “and I will never get that with you lot.” It was half a truth. He didn’t know how to tell them that he felt queer around people, even the family he loved most. It was so hard to be around people, to be expected to speak of dinners and horse races when the words in his throat were still of poisoned tins and demons and ice. Worse still was the knowledge that his family would hear all his words, and gladly, if only to ease his pained mind, but to do so would pain their own, a prospect he could not bear. Solitude was easier, and if with it came loneliness, well, that was not such a great suffering. Compared to those who had been left behind, it was nothing, merely an uncomfortable collar during an admiralty gala. 

Edward pushes his way towards Crozier and Fitzjames. Crozier has his hands clasped behind his back and is turned towards Fitzjames, whose head is bent towards him. Fitzjames’s eyes are soft as he looks at Crozier, and he says something that makes him smile. Crozier lifts a hand and touches it gently to his elbow, his thumb rubbing slowly. Edward’s breath catches. He stops in his tracks. He feels that he has seen something not meant for him, but he does not know what. 

A group of officer’s wives cut in front of him, broad skirts swaying, and he takes the opportunity to pass behind them unnoticed into another hall. He will leave the captain and Fitzjames to their conversation. There are others he would be happy to see, undoubtedly. On arriving at the reception he had talked to Mr. Blanky and been introduced to his wife, a sharp-eyed woman with a laugh nearly as loud as her husband’s. Other members of the expedition had come and shaken his hand, clapped him on the back. But he is apprehensive, as if he is waiting for someone, or someone is waiting for him. The night feels incomplete without -

“Pardon me, Lieutenant Little, sir.” 

Edward turns and it’s – it’s him, sea-glass eyes and dark hair. 

“Jopson!” His voice is too loud. “It is good to see you.” It is good to see him, good in a way that makes his throat tighten. He is clean shaven again, and color returned to his face, even though his hair is still salted with gray. 

“You as well, sir.” 

“I am glad you are here. I am glad you are well. Are you well?”

“The doctors think so, sir. I was released last week.”

To have been in the hospital for so long – Edward’s heart aches to think of it. He has not seen Jopson in nearly a year, not since he was sent back on the first rescue ship with the rest of the invalided men. When Edward had found himself on English shore again he had thought to write him. Three drafts of a letter he had written, before he had realized he did not know where to address it. 

Jopson is looking around the hall. “It is a fine party. Never saw so much silver and cut glass, and all polished so well.” He turns to Edward. “You are looking smart, if I may say so, sir. The gold suits you.” 

“It itches.” Why must he always be so disagreeable? “I should think it would look better on you. But I see you are not in uniform. Have you had time to visit the tailor’s?”

“For a uniform, sir?”

“Yes, a lieutenant’s uniform. You are owed your own gold lace.” Why does Jopson seem puzzled?

“I am not a lieutenant, sir.”

“Well I suppose Whitehall is always particular about these things. Are they insisting you sit the exam? It’s blasted difficult. Took me two times, with all those equations. But I still have my old books somewhere. I would be glad to help with your studies.”

“No, I - thank you, sir - but I have been . . . discouraged from pursuing the matter further.”

“Discouraged? That is - that is -”

“The admiralty merely thought it wouldn’t be a good fit.”

“That is _appalling_ ,” Edward spits. He is more angry than he can remember being since coming home. “To speak of fit, when you performed so admirably, so bravely. None could have done better than you. And they would discourage you, when rank is given so freely to others?” Jopson is staring at him, something lovely in his eyes. Edward finds that he cannot stop. “You may not have the training, but you have the instincts. It would be a waste, an intolerable waste, for you to be merely a steward.”

Not a muscle in Jopson’s face alters, but Edward can tell he has said the wrong thing. A horrible feeling announces itself in the pit of his stomach. Oh, he has ruined this. He is a fool and a brute. 

“You honor me, sir,” Jopson says, but his voice is emotionless. Edward should have his tongue cut out like an _eskimeaux_. 

He needs to rectify this. He has no idea how. He is searching his mind for anything when-

“Jopson!” Mr. Blanky arrives with a thunk of his wooden boot and a twin clap to Jopson’s back. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

Jopson turns to Mr. Blanky, a smile on his face, and Edward must be yellower than he thought because he turns and retreats through the crowd.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, Edward is standing by a fireplace, doing his best to look honored. The speeches have begun, various hoary members of the admiralty extolling the bravery of the Discovery Service. Edward stares at a side table. It’s covered in glasses discarded by the party-goers. Even after use, they sparkle, refracting the lamplight through cut glass. An enormous silver tureen reflects the party back at itself, its curves turning the revellers into soft curves of colors.

Edward wonders how many hours white-gloved footmen spent bringing the glass and silver to such a shine. On _Terror_ the wardroom had always gleamed. Some nights Jopson would work around the officers as they took their after-dinner drinks. He polished the silver with hartshorn powder and cleaned the glasses with vinegar and water. He would varnish the wood paneling with linseed oil, buffering the walls with strong arcs of his arm. Edward usually retired early to his bunk, but those nights he liked to stay in the wardroom late, feeling some part of him drawn to the steward’s presence. Being around Jopson filled him with both comfort and disquiet, a contradiction he could not understand but felt overpowered by. When Jopson would catch his eye, his lips would twitch into the smallest smile and he would tilt his head in a minute bow, and Edward would nod back, wondering if he would ever be lucky enough to earn a true smile. 

Sir John Barrow is speaking now, expounding on the virtue of exploration and the victory the Northwest Passage will bring to the empire. Edward feels like he has swallowed glass. He waits for the crowd to applaud after a particularly inspiring line and then pushes to the back of the hall, out the glass doors, into the terrace and the cold night. 

He quickly realizes that he is not alone, and that the man next to him is the one he is happiest and most loathe to see. Jopson is leaning against the building, one leg bent against the stone wall, smoking a cigarette. When he sees Edward he straightens and makes to put out the cigarette, but Edward gestures for him to be at ease. 

“Forgive me, Jopson. I did not mean to intrude on your solitude.”

“You didn’t, sir. It wasn’t solitude I was looking for. I don’t mind the crowds. It was the speeches-” Jopson cuts himself off and gives a little shake of his head. “I was looking at the stars. Trying to figure out which is Andromeda. I must have been the only officer in Her Majesty’s navy to not know his stars.”

“Jopson, I - You must allow me to apologize. I was cruel before. I would never mean to insult your position. Your stewardship is a credit to the navy. It is selfishness, on my part, to wish you an officer. I wished to have you as a colleague again.” 

Jopson ducks his head. Edward thinks that his cheeks, pink to begin with, are even more flushed from the cold. “Thank you, sir. You are kind to say so.” His voice is soft. He meets Edward’s eyes and his lips twitch. “I can’t pretend I wouldn’t wish it, to be a lieutenant, to serve with you. But captain’s steward is its own reward. None expected a boy from a country shack like me to make it so far.”

“Well then, more the fool them. Anyone could see you are the finest steward in the navy. You must be the envy of all the captains.” A thought strikes him and sits heavy in his stomach. “Have you had offers to sail again? Will they send you on the next expedition for the passage?”

“No, nothing yet. Perhaps now that I am out of hospital there will be offers. To be honest, I - well, I have not settled on staying in the navy. Some time on land might do me good. The captain has offered to act as reference, should I seek a position in a gentleman’s household.”

“I don’t fancy returning to sea much either. I’ve taken an administrative position in the admiralty. Provisions and storage. Essentially a glorified purser.”

Edward expects to see pity on Jopson’s face but instead he looks interested. “Provisions? Like Goldner’s?”

“Mr. Goldner will never supply for the royal navy again,” Edward says fiercely. 

“Good,” Jopson says, a trace of viciousness in his voice. Edward watches him take a drag of his cigarette. 

“You make me wish I had my pipe,” he says. Wordlessly, Jopson hands over his cigarette. Edward brings it to his lips. The end is damp. _From Jopson’s mouth_ , his mind supplies, and the strange feeling this gives him prompts him to speak as he did not mean to. 

“It’s not the sea, really. That’s not what I mind. But I think of returning and I - I feel inadequate to it. The ice reveals every man to himself, and I do not like what I found there. I know now I was not meant to lead men.” 

“Sir, that’s not-”

“No, it is, I know it is,” Edward interrupts. He’s never said this outloud before and he feels a sudden urge to give voice to the torments that have been his companions these long months. “I was indecisive and slow. I let a mutiny foment under my very nose. I _armed_ them, the men who tried to take the captain. The creature came, and I froze. It tore through men while I stood there and you got the others to safety. Don’t tell me that is not what happened. You may not be a lieutenant now, but you acted as one then, and you were the best of us. I had decades of training and preparation, and then the test came, and I failed.”

He finds he is breathing hard. His words hang in the cold air. Now that they are out of him, they feel no less fearsome, but a bit lighter, perhaps. 

“You forget the good you did, sir.” Jopson’s voice is fierce. “It was three years in that place, three years in a place that wanted us dead, and you led men out of it. That any of us are alive is a miracle. Don’t punish yourself for those we couldn’t save. ” 

Edward slumps against the wall. He doesn’t know how to tell Jopson how much his regard means to him. “Thank you,” he mutters, and hands him back his cigarette. 

Jopson regards him steadily. “It’s a loss to the navy, you at a desk, but I can’t say I’m sorry for it. I wouldn’t like to think of you back out there, in danger again.” His lips twitch into that shadow of a smile. He nods at Edward and starts walking back towards the building. Edward realizes he doesn’t know when he will see him again. The thought of Jopson’s absence fills Edward with cold emptiness and he calls out before he has considered what to say. 

“Jopson, wait!” Jopson turns and looks at Edward, expectant.

“I would - I wonder if you - that is to say it’s only that I, well . . . I have found myself in need of a valet.”

Jopson’s smile is broad, and true, and Edward finds himself smiling back, and thinks _This, this is the warmth I was waiting for_.

**Author's Note:**

> -This fic comes from my most deeply held belief, which is that if two characters are in a ship, and one is a steward/valet, then they should be a steward/valet for the other, canon de damned. Would a man of Edward’s position/pay have had a valet, and not a general manservant? Probably not, but I wanted Jopson to have the fancy position, because he deserves it. 
> 
> -Goldner’s tins were probably not the source of any lead poisoning on the Franklin Expedition, it was more likely the water tanks. Their medical problems were actually probably not lead poisoning but [zinc deficiency](https://www.nature.com/news/fingernail-absolves-lead-poisoning-in-death-of-arctic-explorer-1.21128) and good old fashioned scurvy, but I’m going off of show canon. Apologies to the ghost of Mr. Goldner.
> 
> -Victorian cleaning tips from [this book](https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Servant_s_Guide_and_Family_Manual/4wIdAAAAYAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=0), courtesy [attheborder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder)’s great [research hub](https://www.notion.so/Cold-Boys-Research-Central-f2a2d599a4864fb29de888e5d7316eef)
> 
> -I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/eternalbrook), being silly about cold boys
> 
> -This is my first ever fic, so any comments or kudos are much much much appreciated <3


End file.
